


Pieces of a Puzzle

by drosophilase



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosophilase/pseuds/drosophilase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2013 Klaine Reverse Bang.<br/>My beautiful art by the most wonderful <a href="http://soundsaboutrighttumblr.tumblr.com/post/54665864361/this-is-the-original-art-for-the">Nina.</a></p><p> </p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces of a Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t learn history from fic writers, kids. There’s a few elements you’ll see in a Western Civ class but most of this is my own mish-mashed imagination. All my love to Stormy and Chelsey for betaing at 4 am, you’re wonderful. Thanks to my lovely artist Nina for her beautiful art, her kind words, and her endless patience.
> 
> Warnings: a little blood, some violence, a bit of homophobia, both external and internal. Hard R for near-explicit sex.

Having only left his tiny home village once before, Blaine has never been to a train station, let alone seen one of the contraptions with his own eyes.  It’s intimidating, cold metal belching black smoke into the grey early morning air.  It’s _loud_ too, much louder than cows in fields or bells on a schoolhouse, and sounds like his grandfather’s whistle made ear-splitting.

His heart races again as he watches uniformed men loading luggage into the first car of the train, his own trunk becoming indistinguishable from the rest.  Everything started to change so fast as soon as he got his letter of acceptance, and he knows the changes aren’t going to end anytime soon.  Blaine just hopes he can keep his head above water.

Gathered on the platform his family is already beginning to look foreign, dressed in their finest clothes, newly mended in the most threadbare places, and spending a month’s worth of money they don’t have on an automobile to take them back to Westerville.

“Be _careful_ ,” his mother whispers in his ear, crushing him as close to her body as possible.  Blaine winces a little at the fact that she’s crying, _again._ His mother is the reason he nearly didn’t go.

“I will be Mother, I promise,” Blaine swears, feeling like it’s the hundredth time.  He leans down slightly to kiss Quinn’s cheek, ignoring the way her eyes shine with interest.  She, along with her mother, had become invaluable when his father died not six months before, but Blaine never had the heart to tell her that her affections would never be returned.

It’s hard to face his older brother, just like it was when he returned to Westerville for the funeral, when he decided he needed an extended stay to help their mother sort out her affairs, when he wrote a telegram and sent for his belongings and moved back into his old room.  The guilt keeps him from looking Cooper in the eye as they shake hands.

A hand cups his elbow.  “Hey,” Cooper says quietly, barely audible over his mother’s sobs and Quinn’s gentle shushing.

Blaine forces himself to look up.

“Blaine, it’s okay,” Cooper says, and not for the first time.  “You deserve this, you earned it.  I had my chance, and now you get yours.  It’s not your responsibility to take care of our mother, it’s mine.”

Blaine still can’t believe a word of it.  “How is that fair?”

Cooper smiles a little, wistful and sad.  “Life’s never fair, Blainey.  You just do the best you can with what you’re given.”

The call for _All Aboard!_ right next to Blaine’s ear makes him jump, and his eyes well up knowing this is the last time he’ll see his family for nearly four months.

“I’ll write you every week,” Blaine promises, planting one last kiss to his mother’s forehead as he grabs his suitcase and slings his shoulder bag across his body.

He doesn’t look back until he’s settled into the hard wooden seat, elbows tucked in to save space in the tiny quarters.  Though he resists the childish urge to press his nose against the window, Blaine still can’t look away, waving once as the train slowly picks up speed and leaves the platform and the only world he’s ever known far behind.

\--

It’s hard to keep his eyes open when the constant movement and jostling of the train make his stomach roll and head ache, so every time he does manage to open them the view is completely different, gradual changes feeling split-second.  The just-inland grassy meadows of his surrounding villages turn into wooded forests, then flat, open moors that turn to distant misty green mountains.  Every stop they make brings towns and cities twice, three, ten times as big as the village Blaine grew up in.

By the time his stop arrives, Blaine’s head is spinning from more than just the nausea.  Outside his window it’s late afternoon, he knows ostensibly from his arrival time, but the city is blue-grey, the clouds low and buildings high.  There are people _everywhere_ , more people than Blaine thinks he’s ever seen in his life just there within the frame of his window, pushing past each other and moving through the stone streets.

He moves dazedly to collect his trunk, half-deaf with how loud everything is.  He thought the train whistle was loud but it’s nothing compared to hundreds of voices all raised to be heard above each other.  He gets bumped and pushed through the crowd as he struggles to get out of the station with his bags and trunk in tow.

Finally, blessedly, he makes it out, choking a little with how strong and dank the air is, how it feels like his skin is coated in grime from just walking outside.  His palms are sweaty and there’s a strong edge of panic creeping in-- the sky is too far away and the people are too _close_.

“Anderson, I’m assuming?”

Blaine whips his head to the left to find the source of the voice.  There’s a boy leaning against a automobile, a boy much taller than him, with brown hair and pointed features.  He instantly recognizes the red D embroidered with filigree on his blue vest.

With a litany of apologies, Blaine manages to weave through the crowd and drop his trunk at the boy’s feet, his left hand throbbing from the alieved weight.

“Blaine Anderson,” he says breathlessly, realizing too late he only has his wrong hand free to shake.  The boy doesn’t uncross his arms anyway, so Blaine drops his left hand.  “You must be...”

“Smythe.  Sebastian Smythe.  Ambassador for Dalton University and fourth year.”  He pushes off the door, moving to the front of the automobile.  “Final year, if I can manage to get professors that teach instead of torture.”

Blaine swallows thickly, dragging his trunk the last few feet to the open compartment and dropping it, trying to summon strength to lift it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sebastian snarls, Blaine flinching at the casual profanity as Sebastian picks up his trunk with a grunt and lets it land heavily into the trunk.  Hurrying to add his suitcase, Blaine tugs his shoulder bag more snugly around him as he withers under Sebastian’s impatient glare.

Sebastian closes the compartment with a lot less force than Blaine had braced for, and nearly floors Blaine when he actually smiles a little.  “You know I’m just giving you a hard time.  Everyone is tough on the first years.  It doesn’t mean anything.”

Blaine watches him warily as he gets into the automobile, unsure of what he should say.  He went to school from age seven to fourteen in a one-room schoolhouse with two dozen other children of all ages.  His mom taught him what she could between running the three spinning wheels and two large weaving looms that took up the entire back room of their downstairs, but Blaine is getting the distinct feeling that he’s woefully unprepared for University with hundreds of boys his own age.

“Are you sure you know how to drive this?” Blaine blurts without thinking when the automobile stalls out for the third time.

“Of course I do,” Sebastian says dismissively, and Blaine sits in silence through four more stalls before they reach the filigree wrought iron gates of Dalton.

After the dark hanging dampness of the city the campus is startlingly green, lawns spread out on either side of the cobblestone drive.  There’s actually trees here, and the buildings are low enough that Blaine feels like he can breathe again.  Everything is stately and intimidating in an elite way, like Blaine stumbled into a state of higher education he can’t hope to ever shape up to belong within.  Which Blaine thinks, looking around nervously, might be exactly the case.

Sebastian maneuvers the automobile to a long, four-story building with rows of windows where it stalls just short of the front sidewalk.  There are boys on the lawn, throwing balls back and forth and lying around in groups.  “CRAIGSON DORMITORY” is etched over the doors.

“Here you go,” he says, cutting the engine.  “Here’s your key.  You’re assigned to 214.  Just go to the main office in Sanders tomorrow and get your schedule.”

Blaine takes the heavy brass key, wavering uncertainly before getting out of the automobile.  Sebastian doesn’t follow, and Blaine struggles with the compartment, trying to get it open without having a clue how in front of a dozen of his new peers.

The embarrassed flush is threatening to swallow him whole when one of the boys on the lawn jogs up to him.  He’s tall, too, and Blaine knows he’s got to be a fourth year.

“Hey, it’s all right.  I’m Finn.  Let me help.”

Blaine stands back, surprised, as Finn opens the compartment with ease.  He grabs his suitcase and can’t even move to try for his trunk before Finn is hefting it out like it’s full of feathers instead of heavy winter clothes.

“What’s your room number?”

“214,” Blaine manages, following Finn’s lead into the dormitory and carefully not meeting the gaze of the boys who have all turned to stare.

There’s a beautiful exposed sloping staircase in the main lobby between the first and second floors, but Finn takes him to the stairwell hidden off to the side.  Finn doesn’t put down his trunk for a second, carrying it up the flight of stairs without so much as a grunt.

Blaine holds each door open for him petulantly.  If his family had owned a farm or broken horses or milled flour he’d be a lot stronger and much more impressive.  “You’re not going to get in trouble for helping me, are you?” he can’t help but ask as he unlocks the door marked 214 in brass numerals.

“Nah,” Finn says dismissively, putting his trunk beside the empty bed.  The other is unmade, a few books and journals strewn around but hardly any personal items.  Blaine’s roommate is nowhere to be found.  “I’m sure someone will give me a hard time, but I don’t care.  I didn’t catch your name?”

“I’m Blaine. Anderson,” Blaine stammers, quick to meet Finn’s handshake.  “Thank you so much.”

“Not a problem,” Finn dismisses, waving his hand.  “You stay out of trouble, okay?”

Finn lets himself out, and Blaine shakes his head after him, dazed.  Blaine’s more afraid by the second that he’s in way over his head here.

He starts unpacking his trunk, organizing his own clothes alongside the four new sets of Dalton uniform clothing hanging in his closet.  Halfway through his underwear the door to his dorm room bursts open and Blaine blushes furiously, shoving them all underneath his winter coats.

“Hey there roomie!” the boy in front of him exclaims, pushing his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes.  “I’m Sam.  Don’t call me Samuel unless you’re my mom.  And I know you’re not, because she’s back in Kent.”

Blaine opens and closes his mouth once without sound, totally at a loss.  He clears his throat.  “I’m Blaine Anderson, nice to meet you.”

Sam slaps his outstretched hand palm to palm, making some kind of complicated handshake gestures.  “No, none of that.  We’re roomies now, and if anybody’s gonna be friends, it’s gonna be us.  I’m guessing you’re here on scholarship, too?”

Blaine nods, unsure of Sam’s tone.  He was proud that he’d been eligible to attend Dalton for free, and in his village he was fawned over for weeks because of it, but something in Sam’s grim set of his mouth makes him pause.

“Yeah, me too.  It’s a great thing for my family, and I’m sure for yours, but here, not so much.  There’s kind of a big divide between the rich kids who can afford to go here and the poor ones who got in on scholarship.”

“Oh,” Blaine breathes, knowing instantly that Sebastian was one of the rich ones.  And he probably knew just as quickly that Blaine surely wasn’t.  His family was well-off in his tiny village, but there was no way his family would ever own an automobile or he would have shiny new shoes or exotic products for his hair.

“Don’t worry,” Sam assures him swiftly, clapping him on the shoulder.  “And don’t give me that petrified look.  We may not be rich, but we can stick together, right?”

“Right,” Blaine agrees weakly, moving back to his trunk as Sam settles on his bed, throwing a ball at the ceiling and catching it in turn.

When he’s finished putting his clothes away (shoving underwear in his drawer furtively so Sam wouldn’t see) he wedges his trunk into the floor of the closet, closing the door with a satisfied hum.

He looks back at his room key, remembering what Sebastian said, and hesitates only for a second before asking, “Do you know where Sanders is...?”

Sam catches the ball and scrambles to sit up like he had just been waiting for permission to speak.  “Okay so Sanders is the administration building, it’s the big building with the clock on top.  But what you _really_ need to know is the dining hall...”

Blaine settles in opposite Sam, tucking his legs underneath himself and marveling at how less than eighteen hours ago he was in his bed at home.

\--

It’s easy, walking across the lawn and sitting in the dining hall, to tell the rich from the fortunate-to-be-there.  There’s a divide that Blaine can’t quite put his finger on, something in the way a person carries himself or the way he looks at others, something that makes like people recognize each other and group together.

It’s tougher in class, when the professor is the most intimidating man in the room and even the oiliest rich boy (Hunter, Blaine remembers from the roll call) gets knocked down a peg when he tries to pose a challenge.  Blaine’s less careful about averting his gaze in class, too, prone to sit at the back anyway to go unnoticed and finding that he can easily pretend to be looking at the board when really...

There’s a boy in two of his classes that sparks his interest immediately.  It’s an advanced math and a literature class, and by the way the professors are familiar with him the boy is at least a second year.  Blaine misses his first name in math but he gets it in literature-- Kurt.

Blaine can’t help but pay attention to Kurt during his classes that first week, fascinated with the way he moves his hands when he talks, the way he flawlessly disregards anyone who tries to argue his point, the arch of his neck and the upturn of his nose.  Really, it’s hard to miss Kurt when he has a sort of quiet power around him that makes even some professors recoil under his gaze, makes nearly every student move out of the way when he walks by.  Blaine is endlessly fascinated, watching Kurt command a table of upperclassmen over lunch but not speak to a single one of them as he eats.

“That’s Kurt Hummel.”  Blaine nearly drops his lunch tray spinning to see who was talking to him.

“Finn,” Blaine says, trying to sound normal.  “I wasn’t-- I didn’t--”

He laughs, straightening up from where he had to bend down to talk into Blaine’s ear.  “It’s okay, you know.  That you were looking.”

“I _wasn’t--”_

“Blaine.”  It isn’t a question.  He _knows._

Blaine looks at his feet, anxiety a sick black weight in his stomach.  If Finn could tell from a split-second look, it’s only a matter of time before the whole school knows.  Unless they already did.

“Are you okay?”  The concern in Finn’s voice only makes it worse.

Blaine shakes his head, determinedly blinking back tears.

“Hey,” Finn says kindly, directing Blaine to a table and making him sit, taking the seat beside him.

“They’ll s-see,” Blaine warns, stuttering as he ducks his head, wipes the traitor tears rolling down his face on his sleeve.  It didn’t take him long to find out that Finn was one of the rich crowd-- the first boy to shove him for “making” Finn carry his trunk was all the message he needed.

“I don’t care.  Blaine.  I really don’t care.”

With a huge sniff, Blaine looks up.  There’s something in the adamant way he said it.  “You mean...”

Finn smiles and instantly Blaine feels better.  “I don’t care because it’s not my place to care.  It’s not my secret to tell.  I just wanted you to know that it’s okay.  That Kurt would be okay with it.”

“Oh,” Blaine says dumbly, sneaking a look back at Kurt’s table and feeling a thrill all the way up his spine when Kurt quickly looks away.  So he wasn’t the only one watching.

“Kurt’s a good kid.  I’ve kind of become like a brother to him, strangely enough.  He could... he could use someone like you, Blaine.”

Blaine nods dumbly as Finn squeezes his shoulder one last time and leaves.  The five chairs around him remaining empty-- apparently even the other scholarship cases are wary of Blaine now that Finn’s associated with him in public-- but Blaine catches Kurt staring twice more and he can’t find it in him to care.

\--

He stops thinking about being cautious once he knows Kurt doesn’t mind him staring, and that’s his first mistake.

After literature class one Tuesday when the trees outside have lost half their autumn leaves, he gets shoved to the floor on his way out the door.

Keeping his head down, Blaine reshuffles his books, stuffing things back into his shoulder bag and stringing apologies together when a foot jabs at his ankle.

Blaine winces at the impact, knowing it will leave a bruise, looking up at the burly first year that sits two rows over.  They can’t have been more than a few months apart in age but Blaine is dwarfed next to him, especially sprawled on the ground.

Dave Karofsky, Blaine remembers the professor calling him as he leans in.  “Cut that pansy shit out,” he snarls, putrid breath and hateful eyes making Blaine recoil on instinct to get _away_.

Karofsky shakes his head and laughs sinisterly, leaving Blaine alone with a throbbing ankle and a pounding heart.  Finn knew, Karofsky knew.  So many of them could tell by just _looking_ at him, and he didn’t have money or power like Kurt to make him untouchable.

“Are you okay?”

Speak of the devil... or more fittingly, the angel.  Blaine can’t help but look up at the sweet tone, the voice he usually files away to think about later when there’s no one to worry about knowing.  Kurt’s twisted around the doorway, eyebrows up at what Blaine knows must be a ridiculous sight.

“Not really,” Blaine replies bitterly, scraping himself off the floor and pushing past him without looking back.

\--

Blaine stops watching, or at least stops watching where Karofsky or Finn could notice.  He accepts Sam’s invitation to play cricket and finds he’s not bad at hitting, and Sam’s friends, Nick and Noah (or “Puck” as he insists), clap him on the back when he scores the winning run.

After getting his midterm grades back and finding camaraderie with other scholarship cases it’s easy to throw himself into studying, to lose himself in the musty book stacks in the library and remember where he came from and why he’s there.  If his grades slip, his scholarship goes, and studying at Dalton is going to help him, help his family.  There’s no time for funny business.

Really, everything would have gone according to plan if they hadn’t read that book in literature class.

It’s a modern expose on factory conditions, hotly controversial, and Blaine can see why.  Every account in the book is supposed to be straight from factory workers, though the names have been changed and, in Blaine’s opinion, the stories highly embellished.

When the debate inevitably starts in the classroom Blaine shies away with the others who come from small villages, his only acquaintance with factories being the smokestacks he can see from his dorm window.

 _Is this even on the syllabus?_ the note slipped onto his desk reads.  Blaine exchanges an incredulous glance with the boy sitting next to him, Alan, he thinks.  Professor Schuester tended to make them analyze poetry and plays from hundreds of years ago, but Blaine can see why he’d assign this book.  To some members of the class, it was deeply personal.

Paul and William are debating at their seats, but with every back-and-forth they sound seconds closer to getting up from their seats and screaming at each other.  Schuester is completely passive, sitting at his desk benignly like he didn’t agitate his students into a fighting match.

“The problem here is that no matter what you say about factory conditions, none of this is _provable_.  It’s clear that these stories are completely made up, there’s no way that things could be this bad.”

“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong, worthy opponent.  Just because these people chose to keep their identities a secret doesn’t mean we should discredit what they say.  You can mark my words, someday a factory insider will come forth and be named.  It’s only a matter of time.”

_“Why don’t we just ask the one in the room?”_

The outburst comes in the middle of Paul’s rebuttal and it’s hard to pinpoint the source (though Blaine can see Karofsky crossing his arms in satisfaction).  It doesn’t matter, anyway-- everyone turns to look at Kurt.

Blaine is confused for two seconds until all the pieces fall into place.  Hummel.  Factories.  Money. Power.  He should have figured it out months ago, because obviously everyone else already knew.

Kurt stands, looking down his nose at the class.  Blaine tries to pretend he’s imagining the way Kurt’s chest is heaving and his arms wrap around himself for protection, but try as he might he can’t stop caring about Kurt.  There’s always been vulnerability hiding right under his cool exterior, and now Kurt is struggling to hold it together.

“My father’s factories are state of the art, and even if they were not, their condition has nothing to do with me and it certainly has nothing to do with this book.”  Blaine can practically feel the c hill in the air from his words, even if there’s a fine tremor running through them.

“Is that why you’re getting those letters?” someone else yells, not Karofsky this time, a boy Blaine has seen Kurt shoot derisive looks at more than once.  Jeff, he’s called.  “Because the Hummel factories have _nothing to do with you?”_

Blaine can see from across the room how Kurt’s jaw is working furiously.  “Thank you, Jeff, for disclosing my private information to the class at large.  But I find it hard to believe there’s a single person in here who has been directly affected by _factories--_ ”

It makes something snap in Blaine.  “Tell that to my grandmother who’s been spinning thread and weaving cloth for over sixty years,” he spits bitterly, unable to stop the harsh words from spilling out.  “Tell her how your factories don’t affect her.”

The class falls silent, and Blaine knows every person is staring at him but he only has eyes for Kurt.  Deliberately, slowly, Kurt picks up his notebook and shoulders his bag, turning on his heel for the door.

“Alright class, let’s pay attention to the debate,” Professor Schuester finally intervenes.  One by one they all look back at the front and Blaine is left alone with the afterimage of Kurt’s undeniably hurt face burned into his eyelids.

\--

Blaine had all-in-all decided to avoid Kurt for the next two and a half years of his life, no matter what Finn tried to say.  He was doing a pretty good job of it, too, until a blustery Thursday night not even a week later.

His personal spot in the library is tucked away so far that Blaine himself didn’t see it until he stumbled upon it.  It was chosen specifically for that reason, and also because the bookshelves were close enough to double as extra desk space and the lamp on the wall never ran out of oil from being so scarcely used.

Only one person has accidentally found him before, and Kurt makes two.

“What-- oh,” Kurt pants, expression slipping from bewilderment to anger as soon as he makes eye contact.  Blaine is terrified.  “Right, there you are.”

He debates between shrinking away and standing up as Kurt moves closer, waving a piece of paper around, and in his indecision stays frozen in place.  “Here I am,” Blaine says, his voice valiantly strong, he thinks.

“Did you send me this?” Kurt accuses, thumping the bit of paper on his desk.  Blaine scowls at Kurt, knowing he hasn’t sent him _anything_. 

Someone hisses a _shhh_ and Kurt viciously shushes them back.  He jabs at the paper again.  _“This,_ Blaine, did you send me this letter? Or any of these?”

He tips his shoulder bag onto the tables and at least a dozen more fall out, all typed with a typewriter and signed off the same way.

“ _Ned Ludd?”_ Blaine reads, shuffling through the stack.  “Kurt, of course not, no, I would never send you-- _threatening_ letters.”  His mouth hangs open as he reads each one, anger flaring at the taunts, the smears, the promises of _more to come._

“Kurt, where did these come from?” Blaine nearly growls, papers crinkling under his clenched fist.

With one last suspicious look, Kurt must finally believe his innocence, falling into the chair opposite Blaine and burying his head in his arms.  Blaine almost touches his hand, but decides against it.

“They-- they end up in my dorm, one or two a week,” Kurt admits miserably, wiping away tears.  Blaine’s hands twitch, helpless.  “They used to just be on the floor, slid under my door, I guess, and I just laughed them off and put them away, but now...”

“Now, what?” Blaine prods, trying to stay calm but dreading what Kurt will say.

“They’ve been, um, on my bed.  On my pillows.”

Blaine sucks in a breath, sharp and loud in the still quiet of the room.

“I keep asking Jeff, but he insists he hasn’t seen anything, that he doesn’t know anything. I-- I just don’t know what to do.”

Kurt dissolves back into tears and Blaine slowly, giving him plenty of time to decline, reaches across to nudge his fingers against Kurt’s knuckles.  He grabs Blaine’s hand and clutches like his life depends on it, and looking at the letters strewn over the desk, Blaine is worried that it might.

\--

“And you’re sure there’s no one else?” Blaine asks again, trying to keep his voice gentle when the frustration keeps mounting.

“ _Yes,_ I’m sure,” Kurt insists, flopping backwards onto his bed and covering his face.  His words are muffled when he says, “I don’t know why this is happening to me.”

Blaine doesn’t acknowledge the second part, knowing Kurt’s why-me complaints all too well.  Regardless of whether they should have or not, _someone_ has targeted Kurt as a way to threaten his father’s factory, and they aren’t giving up anytime soon.

It took awhile for Blaine to get the whole picture when Kurt was half-ashamed to admit just how influential his family was.  Burt Hummel, his father, became successful with his first textile factory upstate in Daysville, and another in Akron, but since sending Kurt to Dalton had been looking to branch out in the southern region of the country.  That had lead to Hummel Textiles buying out the only local textile mill (formerly Garrott & Co.) and, as Blaine came to realize, potentially making a lot of enemies in the process.

They did have the advantage of knowing that Dalton’s campus was completely locked down, and only authorized students, faculty, or staff had access to the front gates.  The frequency of the letters ruled out most of the staff, and any professor visiting the dorms that often was sure to be noticed.  Blaine was convinced it had to be a student.

“There’s got to be someone who would want to help scare you.  A rival, a bully...”

Kurt scoffs.  “You know Karofsky, he bullies everyone.  The only person who’s ever directly challenged me is Finn when I was making a fool of myself in choir practice, but you know how that turned out.  Actually, my biggest suspect for a few weeks there was you.”

Blaine laughs, turning around ready to quip about how many university boys would go to jail defending their _grandmother_ when the sight in front of him makes his words die on his tongue.

Heart thumping fast, Blaine swallows dryly at Kurt’s long leg hanging off the side of the bed, the bare ankle and foot where he’d removed his shoes when they came into Blaine’s dorm room.  Kurt had gotten six more letters in four weeks and with finals just days away he didn’t want to take any chances with running into the messenger.

And as much as Blaine can’t believe Kurt actually wants to be around him and is fast becoming one of his closest friends, having Kurt sprawled out on his bedsheets is something he’s not quite sure how to deal with and isn’t an image he’ll soon forget.

“Blaine,” Kurt says softly, voice no longer muffled. 

He looks up sheepishly from where he had been stupidly ogling an ankle.  “Yes?”

“Have you ever kissed anyone? A boy?”

It’s like every last wisp of air gets knocked out of Blaine’s lungs. He gasps out, “Have I--? Um, no, I haven’t.  Have... have you?”

Kurt’s smiling a little, wistfully, Blaine thinks.  “No, I haven’t.  I guess there haven’t been many people in my life I’ve wanted to kiss.”

“But?” Blaine asks breathlessly, vocalizing what was implied in every word Kurt just said.

“But,” Kurt smiles, “there was this boy that kept staring at me across the dining hall and I couldn’t figure out why.  I decided I really liked him looking, though.”

“That’s good,” Blaine smiles back, breathing in with shock when Kurt leans closer so that his mouth is already open when their lips touch.

Every single centimeter of his skin feels like it’s buzzing, like he’s fully alive for the first time in his life.  He doesn’t even think, letting his mouth move on instinct, pressing closer and cupping Kurt’s cheek in his hand to get more of that taste in his mouth, that skin under his fingers.  He nearly groans out loud when Kurt slips his hands into his hair that desperately needs cutting, separating the fine strands with his fingertips.  And Kurt keeps tugging, pulling away with his body but pushing with his hands so Blaine can’t help but follow, stumbling over his feet to climb onto the bed, lips never parting for more than a split second.  On shaky arms he settles over Kurt, out of his mind with the way his body is rushing with want, how good Kurt feels all around him.

Heart beating so fast he can’t breathe, Blaine breaks the kiss, sitting up and putting space between them.

“Wha?” Kurt says dazedly, arching up with his kissed-slick, dark red lips still pursed.

Oh, Blaine is so far gone.  “Um,” he manages, panting and trying to calm himself down, “I have not a _clue_ what I’m doing.”

Kurt smiles, fingers pressing into either side of Blaine’s neck as he leans up and kisses him once.  Blaine basks in the casual affection.  “Neither do I.  Just do what feels good, what feels right.  Is this okay with you?”

Blaine can’t imagine a universe where it wouldn’t be.  “Absolutely,” he says right against Kurt’s lips, stretching out for more.

He gets lost in the pull of Kurt’s lips, the push of his hands, the stretch of pale skin that’s bared when Kurt tips his head back into the pillows and Blaine covers it in  gentle kisses, shivers when Kurt whimpers deliciously, works to unbutton Kurt’s collar to find the curve of his collarbone.  Falls headfirst into Kurt and knows it would be an impossible feat get back up.

Night falls around them and Blaine tears himself away to light the lamps before they can’t see anything at all.  Kurt stays sprawled out on the bed and Blaine wishes he had a camera to capture it forever, thinks about borrowing one from the photography department.

He almost crawls right back in next to Kurt when he notices something’s been shoved under his door.  A piece of paper that looks really familiar.

“Blaine?” Kurt says uncertainly, and Blaine knows he’s acting strange.  “Is something wrong?”

Taking the lamp with him and grabbing the nearest textbook Blaine steps over the paper and opens the door to the hallway, holding the book over his head.  He looks left and right but there’s no sign of anyone in the hall.  There’s no telling when they slipped the paper under the door.

He closes the door and locks it back securely, picking up the paper with two fingers.

“I think it might be,” Blaine says, turning the paper over to read.

_Moving, are we?_

_There’s nowhere you can hide, but keep on clinging to your friend._

_It won’t change what I’m going to do._

_Sleep tight._

_\--Ned Ludd_

\--

No matter what he says, Blaine can’t convince Kurt to tell his father what’s going on.

“It’ll just make him worry,” Kurt insisted every time, “and the last thing he needs is more stress on his heart.”

Blaine knows he’s right to a point, and if the letters had gotten worse he’d be insisting.  But the cryptic messages actually slacked off around finals, with nothing but a repeat letter under Blaine’s door the day they were both leaving for the break that he immediately hid from Kurt’s view.

It’s harder than Blaine thought it would be to go back to Westerville for Christmas, and he knows it has all too much to do with the bright-eyed, pout-lipped boy that always seems to be perched on his bed, too beautiful and irresistible to leave for long.

They’ve said their private goodbyes ten times over when they take an automobile together to the train station, suitcases stowed in the compartment and jacket folded over where they’re holding hands in the backseat.

Both of them compromised a little on their days to come back to Dalton, hopefully giving them a few days together before their peers return.

“I’ll see you on the fourth?” Kurt checks for the dozenth time as the conductor warns the passengers on Blaine’s train that it’s last call, all aboard.

“Yes, of course.” Blaine’s answer never changes.  Without even bothering to glance around Blaine gathers Kurt in his arms, squeezing enough warmth into him that hopefully they’ll both last the holidays.

“Goodbye,” Kurt whispers in his ear as they finally part, smiling just a little sadly.

“Goodbye!” Blaine calls from the door of the train, finding Kurt out his window and waving until the platform disappears from view.

\--

Being back in Westerville is... hard to put his finger on.  On one hand, Blaine’s overjoyed to see his family, to check on his mother with his own eyes and hands.  Cooper ruffles his too-long hair and pulls him against his will into a one-armed hug and his grandmother promises a haircut as soon as they eat dinner.

He realizes when his childhood home comes into view, cottage looking ready to blow over in the strong winds off the coast, that the sky feels too _close_ now, that this place in a way is as foreign to him as the city once was.  Blaine’s torn between laughing and crying and Cooper looks at him strangely but how can nowhere feel like home?

The letter tucked into his pocket crinkles as he sways with the movement of the carriage, and Blaine thinks maybe home isn’t a place after all.

\---

He helps his mother and grandmother as much as he can, bringing in baskets of wool and taking out bolts of fabric like he’s done since he was eight years old, but with the holidays approaching they get antsier and after two days send Blaine out to find something else to do.

Blaine’s pretty sure they can tell he’s besotted, as well, but they don’t mention it.  Cooper found work with one of the few big merchants in town, a lawyer that splits his time between Westerville and Lima-on-Avon, and he keeps giving Blaine knowing looks that mean he minimizes his one-on-one time with Cooper as much as possible.

Just like old times, he and Quinn end up at the counter at the general store, taking samples of whatever Howard will give them and talking to any out of towners passing through on their way to the coast.

Sometimes the tourist bring newspapers from other towns, and Blaine laps them up, asking questions and reading news even if it’s weeks old.  With seven days before he sees Kurt again (and soon he’ll be counting hours), Blaine talks to a wealthy couple from some far foreign land, their eyes almond shaped and hair straight and pure black.  They do speak his language, though with a thick accent, and Blaine quickly learns the husband is a dignitary of their state, normally stationed in the capitol but taking a holiday to the coast.  He leaves Blaine with a newspaper from the capitol, and it’s not until the next day that Blaine finds something interesting.

He cries out when he reads the headline, Quinn and Howard both looking over in concern.

“Howard,” Blaine says frantically, scanning the article as best he can, “what do you know about these _Luddites?_ What have you heard?”

“Well,” Howard starts, scratching his head, “they’ve been mobbin’ and destroyin’ factories far as I can tell.  Heard they busted up one over in Daysville.”

Blaine splays his hand out over the article, knowledge feeling like dread sinking in.  “All they leave are notes signed by Ned Ludd.”

Howard nods sagely, “That’s what I heard.”

Debating back and forth on writing a letter (too slow) and sending a telegram (too expensive), Blaine decides to find out everything he can over the next six days about these Luddites so he and Kurt can put this insanity behind them once and for all.

\---

Kurt’s train arrives an hour later than his, the closest they could schedule, and by the time it arrives Blaine is bouncing on his feet.  He catches Kurt with open arms and nearly cries with relief at feeling him solid and warm and real and right against his chest where he belongs.

“Let’s get out of the cold,” Blaine says to fill the gap where they should kiss, knowing the train platform is no place for such displays.  Kurt’s smile is brilliant and his lips much too pale but Blaine keeps himself in check, just knocking his shoulder gently into Kurt the whole way back to Dalton.

Kurt nearly strips the buttons off Blaine’s coat trying to peel it off his shoulders, kissing at the back of his neck while Blaine is still tangled in the sleeves.

“Kurt, _Kurt,_ ” Blaine murmurs, laughing as he just kisses lower, tugging harder.  “Sweetheart you’re going to rip my seams, hold on.”

He gets released and unbuttons the coat himself, hanging it in the closet neatly before turning around.  Kurt’s head is cocked, eyes bright.

“What?” Blaine says self-consciously, looking down at himself.

“You called me sweetheart,” Kurt replies, and his smile is so vibrant Blaine forgets all about the grey skies outside.

“Is that okay?” Blaine asks, smiling hopefully, fishing because he already knows the answer.

“It’s wonderful.”  Kurt loops his arms around Blaine’s neck and leans in with eyes already half-closed.

It’s instinct to let Kurt ease him down onto the bed, keep kissing furtively as knees press into either side of his hips.  He kisses Kurt for the two weeks that he couldn’t, giddy relief and the ache of missing and pure joy of being together passing from his lips to Kurt’s.

Blaine fumbles to get his own scarf off, fingers scrambling until Kurt pulls back and does it himself, gently pulling the fabric out from Blaine’s collar and unbuttoning his shirt farther than he ever has.  Blaine fights to keep his hips from rocking up out of their own volition, unable to stop the whimpers that rise in his throat when Kurt’s lips attach just below his collarbone, sucking hard and making his body jolt.

He’s soaked with pleasure in a way he never has been before, these kisses feeling like the prelude instead of the main attraction as they normally are.  Blaine pants as Kurt sits up slightly to unbutton his own shirt, dizzy and achingly hard in his trousers when Kurt slips the entire piece of fabric off his shoulders.

 _“Kurt,”_ he breathes, not even stopping to ask before running his hands all over Kurt’s chest and back, tracing freckles on his shoulders and thumbing the dip of his collarbone.  The breathy moan he gets in return makes his eyes roll back in his head.

“I wanted to--” Kurt starts, choking himself off with a whimper when Blaine’s thumb catches on his nipple, “Blaine I wanted to try something.”

“Anything,” Blaine says instantly, hardly caring what he’s agreeing to.

Kurt deliberately slips the rest of the buttons on Blaine’s shirt through each hole, parting the two sides and running his hands all over Blaine’s torso.  He can’t stop writhing under the touch, body moving of it’s own accord to get _more._

Slowly Kurt slides over him as he lines up their bodies, Blaine’s sweat-soaked shirt still clinging to his arms.  After a moment of hesitation, Kurt dips his head to mouth under Blaine’s ear and drops his hips.

 _“Oh,”_ Blaine moans, knows he’s yelling as he rolls his groin back up into Kurt’s, body tensing and relaxing in turn at the hot waves of _good, so good_ that roll through him.  “Kurt how did you-- what--”

Kurt pulls back just enough to grin wickedly above him, hips rolling sinfully in a way that makes Blaine strain to spread his thighs, to feel Kurt as close as humanly possible.

Burying his face in Blaine’s neck, Kurt gives himself over to what Blaine knows his body is telling him to do, chasing the building heat, pressing together until they almost fuse together.

Blaine cries out when Kurt bites down on his shoulder, mind fuzzy and skin prickling and he’s so close he can barely hold off.

“Wait, Blaine can we-- Blaine these pants are wool, I don’t--”

He almost laughs at how Kurt is so concerned about clothes even like this, face red and hair falling in his face and gorgeous, gorgeous. “Yes, Kurt, just, _please.”_

Lifting his hips makes him rub up against his precome and sweat-soaked underwear and Blaine moans helplessly, holding off as much as he can, letting Kurt do all the work as he focuses on keeping himself in one piece when he feels on the precipice of shattering.  The cool air barely hits him before Kurt is draped over his body again, nothing between them now as he rubs them both to completion.

Blaine can’t help but move against him, the rhythm imperfect but the friction _right there_ , desperate with the way Kurt is writhing, working and taking Blaine’s body somewhere it’s never been.

All it takes is Kurt’s release, wet and warm on his belly as Kurt’s face scrunches and back arches beautifully for Blaine to follow him, throwing his head back and grinding up against Kurt’s soft inner hip and letting the sweep of ecstasy melt him into the mattress.

Kurt presses kisses all along Blaine’s collarbone until his wits come back and he remembers the sticky mess between them.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, a little awkward and fumbly as he stumbles off the bed with his pants still open.

Blaine’s never seen another man naked, barely seen himself naked except when he looks down and once when he dared in the big mirror downstairs, but he knows Kurt belongs in a museum carved out of marble.

Kurt comes back with a cloth, and Blaine winces with the cold though there’s nothing they can do about it when there’s no one to keep water boiled over the holiday.  They both blush furiously when Blaine has to button his pants back up, but when he finally gets his shirt completely off and miles of flawless skin wrapped up in his arms, he can’t help but hum contentedly, heart full with deep affection for the man whose heart beats steadily against his.  For the first time in weeks, they sleep peacefully.

\--

Kurt didn’t tell his father about the letters, as Blaine knew he wouldn’t, but he didn’t come back empty-handed.

“Daysville?” Kurt shrieks when Blaine shows him the article and tells him what he knows.  “That’s where one of my father’s factories is.  He told me something had happened, but he-- he never mentioned it got _mobbed.”_

Blaine looks back at all the letters sent to Kurt, all tacked up on the wall above his bed.  “I think it’s safe to say someone is out for your father, and they’re going through you to get to him.  The new factory here must be their next target.”

Kurt hugs his knees to his chest and Blaine is at his side in an instant, rubbing his back gently.  “What do I do? Do I call him?”

Blaine squints at the letters on the wall.  “Not yet.  There’s just... something that seems a little off to me.  Let me go to the library.”

\--

It takes two afternoons of digging through past periodicals and too many questions to the very irritated holiday bookkeeper before they dig out articles on the Daysville vandalizing, as well as two more upstate incidents.

“It all looks the same,” Kurt says miserably, picking up each article in turn.

“Maybe not,” Blaine says quietly, staring hard at the copy of one of the Ned Ludd letters that’s printed in one of the papers.  “Look at this.”

Kurt looks back and forth from the letter in Blaine’s hand and the letter in the newspaper.  “What am I looking for?”

“It’s just,” Blaine starts, blowing air out in frustration, “the ones being sent to you seem _different_.  The way they’re structured is not the same as the way this one is structured.”

“So... you think the person sending me letters isn’t the same as these Luddite people?”

“Exactly.  We already know it has to be someone within Dalton, or at least someone who has direct access to someone who attends Dalton.  I don’t think this is about factory conditions, I think this is personal.  A falsifier using the Luddites as an alibi, to cover their tracks.”

“Oh my god,” Kurt says lowly, looking between the two letters again.  “I think you might be right.”

He turns to look at Blaine, sly grin that Blaine’s becoming all too familiar with firmly in place.  “When did you get so smart?”

Blaine shrugs shyly and nearly falls over from his crouch when Kurt kisses him right there in the back room of the periodical section of the Dalton University Library.

\--

Trying to pick Kurt’s brain for names is again fruitless, as Blaine was afraid of, so when classes start back he turns once more to the periodicals (waving fondly to the librarian) to find out what exactly happened when Burt Hummel took over the local textile mill.

There’s a lot of articles that Blaine nearly overlooks, about employees laid off and renovations, but it doesn’t take long for him to find a name he recognizes.

\--

“Karofsky.” Blaine confronts him in the dormitory hallway, Kurt at his elbow.  He knows that every boy in his room can hear them, and Blaine takes advantage of the semi-public setting.

“Yeah?” Karofsky says, cracking his knuckles as he turns around.  Blaine doesn’t flinch.

“I heard an interesting piece of information over the holidays.  Your father used to work at the mill, back when it was Garrott & Co.  Is that right?”

“Who’s asking,” Karofsky says bluntly, crossing his arms so that the Dalton blazer pulls tight on his shoulders.

“Well, I am,” Blaine retorts.  “Because I would think your father getting injured while working for Garrott and getting hushed up, presumably by the new manager under Kurt’s father, would make you pretty angry at the Hummels.”

“And why would you think that,” Karofsky says through his teeth.

“Because,” Blaine declares with a lot more confidence than he feels, flying by the seat of his pants, “you didn’t want your father to take the hush money.  You saw the factory conditions and you wanted him to be the one to stand up and say something was wrong.”

Kurt squeezes at Blaine’s wrist and they wait.

“Sounds like a load of shit,” Karofsky says gruffly, turning to leave.

“Too bad he’s just as much of a coward as you are,” Blaine says loudly, ignoring Kurt’s gasp and insistent elbow in his side.

Karofsky turns back around, furiously stalking towards Blaine and backing him into the wall.  Blaine raises his hands calmly and shakes his head at Kurt over Karofsky’s broad shoulder, who clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his yelp.

“You listen to me charity case,” Karofsky growls, hot breath making him distantly nauseous.  “I agree with anyone who thinks that you and your _beau_ need to learn what’s best for you, but I can tell you it’s not me sending those letters.  If you want to know who’s sending them, why don’t you just wait and see.”

He steps back, leaving with only a menacing glare.  Kurt swoops in immediately, hands fluttering and looking for injuries, but Blaine just kisses him on the jaw.

“He’s right,” Blaine concedes, running his hand through his already-frazzled hair in frustration.  “If we really want to know, we’re just going to have to wait and see.”

\--

The letters get worse, more pointed and threatening and specific.  Blaine doesn’t let Kurt read them anymore, intercepting them as soon as they appear and hiding them away in a locked drawer.

When the first one appears on Blaine’s pillow and Sam swears his key hasn’t been out of his pocket all day, Blaine decides they can’t wait anymore.

\--

The hallway is dim after curfew, specially portioned with only enough light to get to the communal bathroom down the hall.  If a lamp goes out in the middle of the night, less than that.

Blaine pulls Kurt in for a lingering kiss, patting his hip to make sure he still has the knife Blaine insisted he carry.

“You know the plan?” he whispers, one last time to make sure.

“I’m going to be fine, Blaine,” Kurt insists, kissing him once more before melting away, down the hallway to his predetermined post.

Kurt’s the one who figured out that the messenger almost always acted after curfew, when the hallways were most likely to be empty.  Together they decided the best course of action-- Blaine just hoped that it truly wasn’t Karofsky or anyone his size, for that matter.

Blaine ducks down into his alcove, knowing Kurt is doing the same fifteen meters down.  It’s being separated from Kurt that makes him panic the most, breath coming ragged with the anxiety.  He knows they have to be apart to make the plan work, but every second he prays that the messenger comes his way.

It can’t be more than a half-hour later that someone opens the stairwell door on Kurt’s end of the hallway, and Blaine takes the opportunity of the door squeaking to curse under his breath.  He counts the seconds with each _thump-thump_ of his heart, tension in every muscle as he watches the nearly-blacked out figure move towards him, stopping, as he knew he would, right in front of Kurt’s door.

The messenger stops to listen and Blaine instinctively holds his breath, fingers twitching towards the folded knife tucked in his own back pocket.  The figure must find something satisfactory because he pulls out a key identical to Kurt’s and lets himself into their dorm room.

Breathing measured in, out, in, out, Blaine recalculates in his head, the silence of the hallway barely broken by the shuddering breaths he can just hear echoing down the hall.

“Don’t forget,” Blaine whispers, barely more words than air, but an answering half-hum lets him know Kurt is fine.  He can do this.  If Blaine didn’t trust Kurt with his life and more, he’d be worried.

As soon as the messenger turns down Kurt’s side of the hallway Blaine steps out of the alcove, taking slow steps in time with the messenger, closing in as much as he can until--

The figure pitches forward, Dalton blazer flying out behind him, and Blaine can’t even see the tripwire he knows Kurt must have pulled taut as he sprints forward to press his knee firmly into the messenger’s back.

Blaine grabs the flailing wrist just in time, wrenching it until the messenger drops the knife in his hand, Kurt scrambling to pick it up.

“Are you still armed?” Blaine says gruffly, forcing the wrist in his grip further when he doesn’t get a response.  _“Answer me.”_

“No,” the figure chokes out beneath him, and Blaine pulls back just long enough to force him into rolling over.

Kurt gasps loud enough to wake the entire hall, but at Blaine’s warning look whisper-yells, _“Jesse?”_

Blaine recognizes him now, the name and the face finally matching up.  A second year, like Kurt.  He knows they’re in choir together.

Jesse spits savagely but Blaine doesn’t waver, pushing his arm farther into an unnatural position.  He can see Jesse gritting his teeth and there’s a sick sort of satisfaction that comes with it.  He’s finally putting a face to the terror that’s hung over Kurt’s head for far too long.

“Tell me why you’re doing this,” Blaine hisses.

And he _laughs,_ ringing in the silent hallway. “Delivering messages? Because I’m getting paid.  All I do is show up when I’m told, take the envelope and put the page where it goes.  That’s it.”

Nearly all the fight drains out of Blaine at once.  There’s no telling what the message Jesse just delivered said-- it feels like they’re running out of time and he’s got the wrong guy pinned underneath him.

“Who do you work for?” Blaine tries instead, only half-heartedly holding Jesse’s arm down.

“I’m not sure,” Jesse says, and Blaine huffs in frustration until he adds, “Look, all I know is that I get paid every two weeks in the same envelope the pages come in.  That’s it.”

“I’ll give you four times what they’ve paid you if they tell us who it is,” Kurt chimes in, voice strong in a way that Blaine can’t help but admire.

Blaine counts to three, but Jesse doesn’t say a word.

“Just let him go,” Kurt says, disgust evident in his tone.  “He’s pretty, but he’s dumb, and shallow as the fountain out front.  He doesn’t know.”

Careless as to his knee placement and climbing off him none too gracefully, Blaine doesn’t bother to help him stand.

“Right,” Jesse says pompously, dusting himself off and nodding curtly before making to leave.  Two steps away, he turns back.

“I might just be a delivery boy for hire, but you might want to reevaluate your friends, Hummel.  Because your big bro is the one giving me messages to send.”

“Finn?” Kurt and Blaine say in near unison, forgetting to be quiet.

“One and the same,” Jesse confirms, tapping his brow once like he’s tipping a hat before he disappears back down the dim hallway.

\--

“He wouldn’t.  Finn would never,” is all Kurt can say through the entire sleepless night, Blaine holding him tight as he alternates between crying with rage and with sadness.

Shushing him gently, Blaine brushes back his hair as the world outside the window slowly lightens from black to grey to gold.  “We’re going to find out, I promise you.  I’m going to make you safe again.”

Kurt fitfully sleeps for a few hours, eyelids twitching and body struggling to move, to get away, and Blaine knows they can’t wait any longer.  It has to end.

\--

He leaves Kurt finally in some semblance of peaceful sleep, kissing his forehead before slipping back to his own room.  Kurt deserves a day off after months of constant worrying, and Blaine tells Jeff in the hallway (sneaking back after his own night in another room, he notices) not to disturb him.

And he goes to find Finn.

It’s harder than he would think, finding one person in a sea of hundreds of similarly-dressed ones.

He manages to hunt him down just before lunch as Finn is leaving a classroom.

“Hudson!” Blaine yells, only a little surprised when the friends that had been surrounding Finn leave without a second glance.  Being Kurt’s closest friend has its advantages.

“What’s going on?” Finn says happily, juggling his notebook to his other hand.  “Hey, where’s Kurt?  Lately you two seem to be a set.”

There’s no time for small talk.  “Why are you giving Jesse St. James threatening letters to give to Kurt?”

Finn scowls, and Blaine can’t tell if it’s an act or not.  “Um, what are you--”

“Letters, Finn, you’re giving Jesse envelopes with typed threats inside and telling him to deliver them to Kurt’s dorm room and I want to know why.  I thought you were Kurt’s friend, his _brother.”_

Shaking his head violently, Finn puts up a hand to stop him.  “I _am_ those things, Blaine, I would never hurt Kurt, I don’t know...”

Blaine glares as Finn trails off, watching the confusion on his face melt into something like understanding.  It doesn’t feel inauthentic, but.  There’s always that chance.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Finn says suddenly, pushing past Blaine and heading in the opposite direction he had been originally.

“Finn!” Blaine yells, but it gets lost in the crowd.

\---

Kurt is awake when he returns.

“Oh, thank god,” he says fervently, wasting no time in pulling Blaine close and kissing him soundly.  “You can’t just leave me when there’s someone-- someone out there who--”

Kissing him again to shush him, Blaine takes his hand.  “I’m sorry, Kurt, I’m sorry.  I just had to go, I had to do _something.”_

“Did you find him?” Kurt asks fiercely, grim determination set in his eyes.  “Finn? Did you confront him?”

“I don’t...” Blaine flounders uselessly, waving his free hand to illustrate the thought his words can’t.  “Is there anyone, Kurt, _anyone at all_ that would want to harm you?  You have to think, _please.”_

Blaine can’t look into Kurt’s eyes when they well up with tears, head shaking, bewildered.  “No, Blaine, I can’t think of anyone, it seems like we’ve ruled out nearly everyone.”

“There’s got to be an answer,” Blaine insists, pulling out the pile of letters and newspaper articles and spreading them out over the bed again.  “There’s a reason someone is targeting you, there’s a reason they’re copying the Luddites to do it.  Think, sweetheart, _please._ ”

Silently, resolutely, Kurt stands at his side and picks up a page.

They flip back through articles they’ve read a dozen times, Blaine triple-checking Kurt’s familiarity with each name he finds, comparing them to a Dalton yearbook from Kurt’s bookshelf.  It’s like deja vu, retracing well-documented steps, and with each second Blaine is more torn between frustration and dejection.  There has to be something they’re _missing._

Blaine gives up first, slumping back into the desk chair.  His stomach is growling loud and judging by the sky it’s been dinner time for an hour.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, and the urgent tone makes him jump back up.  “Look at this.”

It’s an article Blaine never read, one of the periphery ones they must have missed.  It’s short, just another opinion article on the textile mill changing hands, but the last name of the quoted employee is one they can’t mistake.

“Oh my god,” Blaine breathes, and he lets the newspaper fall to the floor as they run out the door.

\---

They hear raised voices two corridors before they get to the office they’re looking for.  Blaine gestures for Kurt to be quiet as they move silently into coherent hearing range.

“...What it was _for,_ you just said I was helping you deliver important documents.”  That’s unmistakably Finn.

“And that’s exactly what you were doing, Mr. Hudson.  The nature of those documents is completely unimportant.”

Blaine has to stifle his own breathing with his hand.  It’s one thing to suspect it, and it’s a whole different thing to hear the voice he listened to and trusted blindly for almost two semesters confirming it.

“That’s horseshit, Professor Schue.  I read the letter you gave to me this morning, I know who it was meant for.  I won’t be a part of this any longer, I won’t let you threaten Kurt!”

The squeak of a desk chair.  The thump of elbows on wood.  “That’s where you’re confused.”  Blaine wants to gag at the dangerous, slick tone of Schuester’s voice.  “You see, it was never my intention to hurt the young Mr. Hummel.  It was all for his father.  I figured if he saw that buying out the textile mill was going to put his precious flower in danger, he’d back out of the deal.  But Kurt didn’t cooperate with my plan, and Burt Hummel never heard a word of the letters I was sending.  It gave me time to reevaluate.  It gave me time to get angry.”

“You mean--”

“My wife never liked working at that factory, but we both knew if she was going to continue with her lifestyle and I was going to stay a professor, she was going to have to help make ends meet.  When the mill changed hands and she got laid off, our marriage quickly descended into madness.  She left me less than a month later.  Imagine my surprise when I learned the son of the man I wanted to personally strangle was sitting in my classroom.”

A tiny gasp makes Blaine turn, already reaching for Kurt who has both hands clapped over his mouth to stifle the sounds, tears streaking over his knuckles.

“Go get help,” Blaine whispers, mouthing more than anything, cradling Kurt’s head just inches from his.

Kurt doesn’t move.

“Kurt, _go,_ ” Blaine insists, shoving him back down the hall.  “Call the cops, tell them anything, get them here.  Don’t look back.  Go.”

WIth a muffled squeak Kurt darts forward, pressing his lips to Blaine’s in a kiss that could never be enough, not looking back as he runs with light treads back down the hallway.

Stomach rolling, Blaine listens again, trying to figure out where they are in the room.  If he can just get any weapons away from him, they’ll be on near-equal ground.  Make it a fair fight.

Finn is yelling again.  “You can’t _do_ this, it’s illegal and it’s _wrong._ I can’t believe you made me help you threaten one of my friends.  You’re... you’re _sick._ ”

Blaine’s blood runs cold at Schuester’s laugh, completely drained of any trace of happiness.  “It’s not a threat if I follow through-- then, it’s a promise.”

Finn’s choked-off yelp forces Blaine into action, fists already thrown up protectively as he steps into the doorframe.

Schuester’s leaning over a huddled mass on the floor, and it’s not until he sees the handle lodged in the stomach does Blaine realize it’s Finn.  He sways on the spot at the bright red stain already spreading.

“Nice of you to join us,” Schuester announces, twisting the handle of the knife and making Finn cry out.

“Don’t!” Blaine screams, lunging forward, but Schuester’s already backing off, empty hands palm up.

“Where’s your, _ahem,_ friend?” Schuester says, casualty betrayed by his rapidly shifting eyes.  Blaine’s looking around the room too-- heavy books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves, Finn’s body blocking his way to the left.  The revolver sitting on the desk just out of Schuester’s reach.

Blaine can feel the added strength running through his veins, the rush that sharpen his senses and hone his reflexes.  He embraces it, ignoring his thundering heartbeat and watching Schuester, measuring with his eyes, scanning the bookshelves with quick glances.

“Sorry he couldn’t make it,” Blaine says confidently, satisfied when that makes his opponent falter for a second, losing his bearings minutely.  “What a tragedy I’ll get to take all the credit.”

He darts to the right, keeping his eyes on Schuester as he grabs the heavy brass statuette off the shelf, heaving it with everything he has and cracking it over the top of Schuester’s skull.  He falls to the ground like a rag doll, fingers barely brushing the revolver on the way down.

“Not a chance,” Blaine quips weakly, body trembling from head to toe as the adrenaline ebbs and his knees give out, making him land hard on his palms.  Shakily he crawls over to Finn, taking his hand and trying not to look at the blood spread out over his torso.

“You did it,” Finn rasps, managing a half-smile.  “You kicked his ass.”

Blaine laughs weakly, curling up next to him and fighting the urge to vomit at the thick smell of blood, the revulsion at what he’s seen and heard.  “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’m an excellent pincushion,” Finn agrees, and they both groan aloud when footsteps start thundering down the hallway.

“Oh, thank god,” Blaine breathes out, turning towards the doorway.  “Kurt?” he manages to strangle out around his dry throat, feeling a hundred times better hearing the frantic _Blaine!_ that echoes back to him.

“Don’t-- don’t come in here,” Blaine says, sitting up, struggling to get off his knees.  “Kurt, don’t.”

His pleas go unheard to the five policemen that storm into the room, guns pointed even though Blaine raises his empty hands.

_“No!”_

Blaine wants to fall back down again when he hears that voice, but he knows this time there would be arms there to catch him.  “No, please, that’s Blaine.  He saved me, he told me to get help and he stayed here, and he-- please.  _Please._ ”

The guns are put away and strong hands are pulling at him, supporting under his armpits and practically dragging him out the door and into the cold hallway that’s too bright, much brighter than it usually is after dark.  Hazily he registers two stretchers being carried in and then it’s nothing but Kurt, Kurt’s arms around his waist and Kurt’s shoulder under his cheek and Kurt’s smell swimming through his jumbled mind to tell him everything would be fine, everything is okay now.

“Blaine, oh god Blaine, I love you, I thought-- I was so scared, Blaine...”

It’s that voice that brings him back to the present-- as inside-out as it feels to be standing in his own shoes, Kurt is there and everything makes sense.

“I love you too,” Blaine mumbles back, grabbing fistfuls of Kurt’s vest and turning his lips to kiss at his neck because it’s over, and it’s done, and Kurt is, at last, truly safe in his arms.

* * *

Epilogue:

Blaine finishes his finals on an unbearably sunny Thursday after nearly a week of rain, though his professors insist he would get the highest marks on all of them, regardless.  There’s a lot of good things that not-so-accidentally happened after That Night, as Kurt and Blaine were wont to call it, the best of which was both of them being assigned together to a new dorm room that was blessedly free of any lingering memories.

Kurt’s waiting in their room, like he promised he would be, and immediately greets Blaine with a kiss.  “We’re still going to visit Finn in the infirmary before we leave?” he asks, and Blaine nods.  Their trunks were sent off three days before, suitcases long since packed and piled at the door, but it had become habit to look to each other for confirmation, to move as one entity.  If Blaine could have attached himself permanently to Kurt’s side, he might have seriously considered it.

There’s a private beach waiting for them, a cottage that Burt Hummel himself bought just for the occasion.  Blaine has only met him once, a couple days after That Night, but he knew right away that Burt would do anything to make Kurt happy.  And Blaine knows without a doubt, looking proudly up at the boy on his arm, that he’s the thing that makes Kurt happiest.

They’ve already planned two weeks in Westerville, where Blaine is sworn to show Kurt how to spin thread _the old-fashioned way,_ and another two weeks in Akron where the Hummels’ main house sits on a mountain, “simply covered in green ivy,” Kurt tells him.

From there, he’s not quite sure, but he knows wherever Kurt goes he’ll be right in step beside him.

He squeezes Kurt’s hand once, slipping it into the crook of his elbow as they step back out into the world that seems to have brightened up just for them.


End file.
